One For All
by Utterby
Summary: Miranda and regret. It was supposed to be a one-shot. Turns out it's not. It's a high T.
1. Chapter 1

I think this is a one-shot. I wasn't planning on starting anything new but it sort of wrote its self.

Not the cheeriest of fics, but nevertheless, I wish you a very Happy New Year.

Rating: I'll say M. It's probably not, but I am overcautious about ratings because I don't really understand them.

I do not own the characters or the story. I am just doing this for fun. Nevertheless I really appreciate comments, good or bad. I know they shouldn't, but they make a big difference to me. Please let me know what you like and what you don't.

* * *

As soon as she saw her, Miranda knew it had been a mistake.

Andrea in the doorway, Miranda in remorse.

That was a revelation in its self, for Miranda to have been the sole decision-maker in this scene and for it to be so entirely wrong.

The realisation of what she had done, what she was actively doing at that very moment, grated at her skin and turned her stoney eyes to red, though she did not cry. How could she cry, when she was straddling her husband on the leather chair that sat in the middle of the room where she was supposed to be enjoying an orgasm.

It had been impulsive, the idea only fruiting in her head one hour before now, and Miranda had taken no time to consider the real consequences; the consequences that rotted in her head.

The back of the chair faced the hallway door, and all Miranda saw as she rocked back and forth on top her oblivious husband was Andrea in the doorway, her lovely face looking even more lovely through two sets of un-shed tears.

Miranda continued to push herself up and down on her husband's disappointing cock like a pro, and Stephen did not notice the minor break in rhythm.

Andrea had only been doing her job, making her way to the table across the hall to deliver the book that she had waited patiently at her desk for, but now it remained tight in her grasp. She had not deserved this at all, but Miranda had had to do something to punish her for all the kind touches and supportive smiles she doled out, and Miranda had thought leaving the study-door open whilst she plied her husband with scotch and then lifted her skirt for him had been an acceptable remedy to the fondness she had been feeling for the woman in the doorway.

But then that look on Andrea's face, and that feeling in Miranda's gut. Neither of those things felt right at all.

"Baby," the gruff voice complained.

Miranda had carelessly slowed her rhythm as the regret manifested into self-loathing.

She watched Andrea's eyes widen at his utterance, and Miranda thrust forcefully down to prevent him from speaking again. Better he keep quiet.

Andrea apparently could not move.

Miranda's was desperate to apologise to Andrea. What she was doing was woefully unfair; Andrea deserved none of this. She had only ever been kind.

But there Miranda was, flaunting what Andrea could never have just because she had thought it would make her feel powerful. But now it was done, Miranda felt defeated. She grasped leather between her fingers, feeling it give, hearing it moan beneath her touch.

She looked over her husband's shoulder and fixed her assistant with her most authoritative stare, half preparing for Andrea to bolt. "Promise me you will stay."

Andrea swallowed, her eyes fluttered around the room.

"You know i'll stay baby," Stephen spoke through lust. When Miranda wasn't playing with his cock or feeding him, Stephen still wanted the divorce.

Miranda supposed she wanted it too.

"I could not bear it if you left me." Again, she directed her words towards Andrea in the doorway and sobbed audibly when a fat, involuntary tear rolled down Andrea's beautiful cheek.

Stephen mistook Miranda's own sob of grief for desire and met her thrust with a force of his own, slamming up into her body, making her head roll about her liquid neck.

"Oh I'm so sorry," Miranda whispered.

"You will be," came the reply.


	2. Chapter 2

I'm not sure if I should have left this as a one-shot. I didn't know where to take this, or even if I wanted to take it anywhere. But again, this has just written its self, and I may as well post it.

I am cautious to get this right, I think it could be ruined easily, and so I would really appreciate if you could let me know what you think.

All mistakes are mine and I do not own anything.

* * *

Stephen had been satisfied. Miranda had passed out from scotch, awaking late on Saturday to a hangover.

As for Andrea, she had said not a word that evening. She left the book, left the townhouse, left Miranda, as quiet as a mouse.

Miranda saw and heard nothing of Andrea all weekend. It made her sick, but that was blamed on the scotch. Stephen could gloat all he wanted.

Monday morning, then.

It came with heavy trepidation. Miranda could feel it even in her heels as she strode out of the elevator, down the hall. The way they produced a flat thud on the floor instead of the sharp clack she was used to.

She dared to look at Emily who appeared to be no more frazzled than usual, so perhaps Miranda's fear was only visible to Miranda.

That's good.

The coat and bag were thrown on Andrea's desk as usual, and as usual Miranda paid her no heed. Nor did she have any instructions. Her tongue sat listlessly in her mouth.

Miranda's weekend had been spent thinking only about Andrea. Andrea over Dolce, over Irv, over Runway, even over her children.

It had been spent clenching fists when her husband so much as spoke, and when he dared to refer back to the events on Friday night…she almost went at him with a knife.

And so, no instructions today. Miranda just went into her office and took her seat.

Runway is usually a comfort and Miranda took the opportunity to survey her office without any reward of comfort at all. There was something different, a minor defect on a label. The Pellegrino was sparkling, not still.

But how could Miranda blame this on anyone but herself.

A shift in the room. Miranda glanced up from the label.

Andrea in the doorway. Miranda in remorse.

Andrea with a Starbucks, minus a smile. Still, you cannot conceal a vibrancy such as hers. She strode into the office all blank and unreadable. Miranda only hoped she was achieving the same sort of facade.

"Your facialist cannot make it today."

"W-what?" Miranda's voice was rough, unaccustomed to speaking.

"She can't make it. She can do tomorrow at the same time."

This did not happen. Not ever, not now Andrea had learned to be competent. Not now she knew the consequences of upsetting Miranda. No facial, the wrong Pellegrino, no smile, no kind words.

Oh.

It was there behind her eyes, a melting pot of baleful regret.

Andrea had been punished only for being too perfect for her own good. Andrea is a quick learner. So, there she was. Faking incompetence right in the face of a perfectionist, in the face of a person who had punished her without cause.

In the face of a person who realised she would sooner never have another facial again than lose the woman that stood in her doorway.

Miranda supposed she didn't have a chance in hell to fix this.


	3. Chapter 3

This thing keeps writing itself! It won't be everyone's cup of tea, but fan-fiction is all about experimenting, right?

Advice and constructive criticism is most welcome.

* * *

And then there was Monday evening.

Miranda waited in the dim and empty study, glaring at the chair on which she had faked an orgasm in-front of her assistant. Wishing she was dead.

A click of a latch. The front door was open. Dead would definitely be better. But then Miranda could not breathe at all, so perhaps it would not be long.

Then the snap of pretty little heels, across the floor and towards the closet, stopped Miranda from that thought. As quick as a cat. Lickety split. They snapped inside Miranda's pensive head.

Stephen was out with his boss, Andrea was in with hers. Andrea and her skin and her smile and her beauty. Really it was too much for just one woman.

Miranda pursed her lips at the empty room and prayed for something. She did not know what. She could not begin to guess what could make this right, but she lived on hope, so she prayed a silent prayer of resolution.

Then a flash of a body through the wide open door, and Miranda had to inhale air into her lungs. There was no choice. Andrea did that to her. Made her do things she did not want to do, like insulting Andrea's weight or flaunting her body or breathing when she wanted to be dead. It just happened. The consideration came later.

Andrea clacked towards the table, and did not once look towards the study. Why would she, with the lights out, with what had happened on Friday.

Good job. If she had looked, she would not have made the table at all. Because Miranda…well. Miranda was empty and small in her chair, small on account of her lumpy sweater and flat hair. Small on account of her error.

As if in competition, Andrea's hair swished arrogantly in its ponytail, swished like her little tartan skirt, swished as though it knew Miranda was staring.

A soft thud announced the book had been placed on the table, so Miranda closed her eyes to memorise the snippy click of desperate heels back out the door, only they did not come. The air was still and silence rolled through the house like a wave of trepidation. Miranda dared not open her eyes. Black was better than that empty chair and that memory of her husband's lap.

One, two, three, the slowly loudening snap of Andrea's heels shot through the air, much slower and more confident than the one two three, slowly loudening beating of Miranda's heart. Instead of the click of the front door though, there was silence. Even with closed eyes, Miranda knew where she was.

"Miranda."

Miranda, for reasons unknown, looked.

Andrea in the doorway. Miranda in remorse.

Of course, now they were alone, Miranda could no more tell Andrea she was sorry than she could stop the tennis ball forming in her gullet. Thick and grating, it lodged so as to prevent her from speaking. Good job, really. After-all, speaking had only got her into this mess in the first place.

_Stephen, how about another scotch? …Stephen, you look so tense….Hold my skirt darling….Stephen don't stop…Promise me you'll stay._

Her mouth had betrayed her awfully. She was thankful then, for that tennis ball in her throat.


	4. Chapter 4

With her straight back and still hands, Andrea was entirely too confident. Her unblemished skin and thin neck were entirely too beautiful. The way her hair fell was akin to melted chocolate, her skin double cream, her mouth a flower. Her eyes, however, squinted on account of the dark, distorting her pale face enough to remind Miranda she was not an accessory to evaluate, and she cleared her throat of the meanderings in her mind.

For a moment Andrea's eyes searched the room, but then Miranda saw the exact moment Andrea found her through the dark. It was the same moment Andrea's skin turned pale and the same moment Andrea jolted, as if she wanted to run had her feet not been inexplicably glued to the floor.

Who could really blame her?

Miranda grew smaller in her chair, tucking a cold hand between her legs mid-thigh.

What do you say to a kind girl who you have insulted in the most magnificent manner? What do you say to go back to the beginning?

Andrea, slow as she cared, shook her head as the corners of her mouth turned down. Her jacket was cradled against her body as though it were a shield against Miranda's viciousness, as if an object could stop the cruelty that flowed through Miranda's blood.

It went without saying that Friday had changed everything, but Miranda conceded that it was not fair at all because it should have been as inconsequential as it was impulsive. Some little silly thing that meant nothing at all, a tasteless trinket on an otherwise impeccable dressing table. Only it wasn't.

Before Friday, had Andrea seen Miranda looking as she did now, alone and unimportant in her own home, Andrea would have offered Miranda water, asked if there was anything she could do to help. Maybe she would have even placed her little hand on Miranda's in a moment of bravery, and maybe Miranda would have grasped tight at Andrea's fingers so as to prevent an early departure.

Perhaps Miranda would have cried when Andrea told her everything was going to be okay, and then Andrea would have knelt patiently at Miranda's feet until she was dismissed.

Any of those things were possible and could have actually been experienced, had Miranda not done what she did. But she had, and none of those things happened, even though they both needed it very much.

Andrea did eventually walk into the room, a move that sent Miranda's head spiralling around itself, though her head crashed right into a wall when Andrea stood behind the ugly chair where she had fucked Stephen, and when she began to stroke the curved back with her spare hand, Miranda almost screamed.

The movement, so slow and light, would have appeared unintentional were it not for the daggery glint in Andrea's eye that told Miranda she knew exactly what she was doing, and the way Miranda's throat contracted and swallowed a dry breath told Andrea in return that her actions were creating the intended response quite perfectly. When Andrea opened her mouth to speak, Miranda dug short nails into her thigh.

"They didn't get to finish the article on the autumn kaftan. Something about the colour theme clashing with the model's fake tan. Made it look dirty."

"Dirty?" Miranda croaked through a repressed throat.

"Dirty. Dowdy. Something like that," Andrea shrugged uncharacteristically.

"I see."

"I'm glad that you do," Andrea replied before a short silence where neither could look away from the other.

"Do you have the book?" Well, that was ridiculous, thoughtMiranda Priestly who does not ask her assistant for anything. No she does not. _Where is the book. _"Do you have it?" There she goes again.

It turns out Andrea did not have the book. She had left it on the table as had been her instruction for months, before stopping in the doorway to search out Miranda. So she was not there for business, then. She was there for something else. But if not business, then what? For pleasure?

Miranda squeezed her thighs together before fear gripped at her skin, shivering as she does when some brave individual walks over her grave, an infrequent but unnerving experience one can never become accustomed to.

"I can fetch it, if it's what you want Miranda." Andrea was very sly and, had that not been directed at her boss, Miranda would have been impressed at her cockiness.

"Yes, well." Miranda inspected her cuticles, thinking about her grave and how in her head it is absent of flowers.

"You want it now?" Miranda stopped inspecting her cuticles. She watched Andrea's full mouth hang a little, wet and red. "I can fetch it, if that's what you want."

Miranda shook her head. She would not play this game, any game, with her assistant. Lessons had been learnt.

"Well then," Andrea smiled tightly but did not stop finger-tip stroking the leather at the same point where Miranda on Friday had gripped relentlessly for purchase with her right hand, while the other had been pressed between her thighs, fingers splayed either side of her sex.

It's a wonder how she climaxed at all, considering what had happened in the doorway. But then, maybe she did not come, maybe it was in her head. Miranda could not remember whether she came, but she did remember how she gripped at the leather, just like Andrea remembered as she continued to stroke softly, gently. "Is there anything else I can do for you, boss?"

"No," Miranda replied and rather than glaring or rolling her eyes or flicking her fingers, looked away in error. "That's…That's all."

* * *

Thank you for those who have reviewed and/or are following this story. Please, if you have time give me your opinion, good, bad or indifferent.


	5. Chapter 5

Tuesday heralded the flat, unyielding presence of melancholy in Miranda's gut that would usually abate with three or four burning swigs of coffee, but this coffee was…tepid. The feeling remained.

Miranda peered over the tops of reading glasses at Emily who all morning had been slamming the phone, dropping her pen, trotting about, generally being noisy and distracting and causing Miranda one hell of a headache. It hit right between the eyes and worsened with watching Emily buzz back and forth at speed.

In opposition, Andrea sat pretty and poised at her desk. Emily would have sprouted a thousand fat jibes at Andrea had Miranda not demanded Emily complete the errands usually reserved for the second assistant. It was humiliating, but Miranda had been utterly unable to speak to Andrea this morning, on account of that tennis ball in her throat. Despite the cough drop taken in preparation, it had reappeared the moment she set eyes on her. So then, all instructions went to Emily.

Miranda had to be careful. People are greedy and people talk. She had heard them many times before, gossiping about her, ruminating over anything at all from plastic surgery to speeding fines, just to pass the time. Everybody but Andrea did it. Even Nigel, on occasion, when she had been unreasonably vicious to him. So then, she must give Andrea, who actually twiddled her thumbs at one point, a job to do to stop the gossip that threatened.

She cleared her throat, rummaged in her drawer for another cough drop, and fumbled with the wrapper.

Andrea could fetch Patricia's arthritis medication; that would be at least an hour of her time, enough to hold back the gossip. But no. What with the tepid coffee and sparkling Pelligrino, who's to say what she would do to Patricia's medication. Would she? And what if Miranda apologised instead? Then what?

Scarves? Already done. Another coffee? Would she really do that to Patricia's medication? The wrapper hugged the damned candy, it wouldn't let up. She wouldn't dare to hurt somebody Miranda loved, would she? Perhaps…

The soft pads of heels against plush carpet caused her to look up. Andrea, once more, was in the doorway looking breath-taking, holding a little pad and paper all ready to take notes. Miranda dropped the sweet back into the drawer as Andrea's lovely mouth formed glorious shapes to accompany a sentence Miranda did not hear for all the screaming in her head. Andrea was beautiful, how could she pretend otherwise. Andrea's mouth stilled, Miranda stared.

"Excuse me?" Miranda removed her glasses so as to blur the image, but the feeling of longing persisted.

"You lunch, Miranda. We can't do steak because Antonio is sick, but I could get you something from the cafeteria. I think lasagne is on, or there is baked potato and cheese, soup of the day…" she ticked them off with her fingers. "Something with rice, sandwiches, wraps, something with eggs, corn chowder…"

"Eggs," Miranda uttered. The less syllables the better. Andrea nodded, wrote a note on the pad. Smiled.

"Time?"

"Twelve," Miranda croaked.

"And a coffee?"

Miranda nodded. "Hot." 

"Naturally."

At eight minutes past twelve, lunch was nowhere to be seen. Miranda clicked her pen repeatedly, staring out through the empty outer-office waiting for Andrea to come and do her job.

By the time the eggs arrived, Miranda was no longer hungry. It probably had a lot to do with the sadness in Andrea's face and the way her eyes had scraped over Miranda's sallow skin as she placed the plate down, apologising for her tardiness only she reached the doorway.

Miranda had stared at the eggs for sixteen minutes before Andrea disappeared from her desk, God knows where, allowing Miranda to sneak into the kitchen unnoticed. She threw the cold eggs into the bin herself and subsequently went without food all day.

The resulting light headedness must have caused havoc on her perception of reality because she actually thought for a moment Andrea was about to cry, or was in the aftermath of crying, when she passed Miranda her coat and bag this evening, though Andrea had turned around before Miranda could prove herself a fool.

When Miranda heaved her bones into the townhouse, it was past eight o'clock

Something to eat, then, to curb this madness. Still in her heels, she strode into the kitchen. With lights off, Miranda opened the fridge and closed it a second later, a fat pack of bacon in hand.

Miranda ate her bacon sandwich standing up in the kitchen and finished it off with a Danish pastry she had bought for one of her daughters.

Now rollingly full, she played the scene back two, three four times and was still certain Andrea had been crying at work. It was in her face. Andrea's skin had paled, eyes like globes, oceans sloshing against their barriers, worried lips that Miranda wanted to soothe with her own. Would Andrea have allowed it? Her heart pined at the uselessness of that thought.

Miranda shook her head and rubbed her stomach, vowing to think of something else when her eye caught Stephen's empty bowl on the counter. It sat next to the small jar of caviar that had been bought for the Sunday just gone to celebrate their anniversary. Only they had not gotten around to it. Stephen's excuse was his deadline (he would be in his study until midnight every day this week). Miranda's excuse was unmentionable. What was the point.

Later, Miranda found herself sitting in the study once more as she once more waited for Andrea. No. As she waited for the book that Andrea would bring. It was a stupid thing to do. She put it on her list of _Stupid things Miranda does._

The door clicked in announcement and Miranda straightened her back. This time, Andrea walked right into the study, book in hand. She passed it to Miranda. 

"Here's the book," she announced needlessly.

"Obviously," Miranda replied though it was weaker than she had intended. She cleared her throat and opened the book. "That's all."

When Andrea did not leave, she closed the book and forced air into her lungs.

"Where is your husband tonight?"

"Don't bring him up," Miranda breathed.

"I'm sorry," Andrea replied. Miranda was taken aback, but was nevertheless extremely grateful for the apology, even if something in the way it was uttered caused her to shiver with nerves. "That's your job, isn't it? Getting him up no matter who is watching." When Miranda's face turned to fire, Andrea walked around to the front of Stephen's chair. "You really took it too far Miranda."

"And I can assure you it will not happen again," Miranda spat softly into her lap, wishing she had burned Stephen's damned chair. Oh, there she was standing right in front of it playing her game, and there was Miranda not entirely protesting because she was weak and unable to fight this feeling of defeat.

"You're right. I quit."


End file.
